


shut up and let me see your jazz hands

by glitterforplaster (ineffableangel)



Category: Star Trek
Genre: Agender Character, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, M/M, Nonbinary Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 06:53:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1678844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffableangel/pseuds/glitterforplaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s Jim’s idea, first, because every ridiculous and potentially dangerous thing they do is Jim’s idea, first.</p><p>(punk band au)</p>
            </blockquote>





	shut up and let me see your jazz hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notquiteaghost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notquiteaghost/gifts).



> at some point this will include all the rest of the enterprise crew. probably. maybe. if i ever finish it.
> 
> warnings for drugs/smoking in the first scene, although not by jim or nyota.

It’s Jim’s idea, first, because every ridiculous and potentially dangerous thing they do is Jim’s idea, first.

The room smells like sweat and summer and Jim’s roommate is smoking in the corner and Jim has his head in Nyota’s lap, aer ringed fingers carding lazily through his hair while he goes on about something or another. Nyota’s not really paying attention, but there’s a lot of wild, excited gesturing, and ae catches his political science professor’s name a few times.

“Uhura,” Jim says suddenly, going quite still. His eyes are wide and blue and there’s a smile curling on his mouth, wondering and sly in a way that has Nyota on immediate alert. “Hey. Hey, hey, what if we started a band?”

Nyota arches an eyebrow. Ae glances over at the cigarette carefully positioned between Jim’s roommate’s lips, calculates the rate of second-hand lung-poisoning, factors in the open window, and says, “I really don’t think either of us are high enough for that to seem like a good idea. What’s your excuse?”

Jim grins, and it’s like turning on the sun. Nyota hates him. “Oh, come on, Ny, it’d be fun! I’d be front man, obviously.”

“Oh, well, _obviously_.” Aer voice drips sarcasm.

“Well, you know, it’s just, I can sing, you know I can, you’ve heard me in the shower—”

“I’ve heard a soaked cat dying—”

“You don’t mean that! Take it back.” Ae doesn’t; Jim barrels on. “You could do drums! I know you could, you’re always tapping out rhythms with spoons and pencils and shit, drives me up a wall when I’m trying to study—”

“You have never willingly studied for anything in your entire life.”

“Driver’s test?” Jim tries, desperately.

“You stole a car when you were fourteen.”

“I was practicing!”

Nyota shares a look with Jim’s roommate. It says, quite clearly, _What atrocities did we commit in our past lives to deserve this kid? He can’t tie his own shoelaces._

“Ny,” Jim insists, flapping his hands in front of aer face to get aer attention. “Ny, focus, alright, band, alright? Band. We should start a band.”

Nyota decides to play along, just for curiosity's sake. “Right. Okay. Me on drums, you with your glitter and your strutting. Who else? You can’t start a band with just two people. You need, like, at least three.”

Jim deflates visibly. “Shit. You do, don’t you?”

He looks so suddenly sullen, so put out, like a wet candle wick, that Nyota feels sort of sorry for him, almost, getting shot down so quickly, and, look, alright, he is aer best friend, has been for ages, since they were in high school, so it’s not like ae doesn’t have reasons for the total lapse of common sense that follows. “God, you are such a _balloon_ ,” ae mutters, hands still petting at Jim’s hair. (Bright yellow, full of air, fun at parties, easily popped, not to be trusted around small children; James T Kirk in a nutshell.)

Jim scrunches up in his nose in a way that would probably be adorable if it weren’t for the fact that he’s an ass, and Nyota hates him. “I’m a _what?_ ”

Nyota bites aer lip. After a second, ae tells him, “I know a bassist.”

 

 

*

 

 

The bassist’s name is Leonard, and he’s a med student, and he has really nice hands, all slim curling fingers and smooth brown palms and wrists Jim wants to press his mouth to. He sort of can’t stop staring. He’s probably being really obvious.

“So. You want to start a band?”

Jim blinks. Leonard is reaching for his water, eyebrows raised, waiting for an answer, but Jim is too busy watching his throat move as he swallows. “What? Oh, right, yeah. Band. I do, yeah. Want to start a band. That.” Actually, what he really wants right now is to launch himself into deep space where no one can hear him make a fool of himself in front of a really cute boy.

“Hm. Can you pass me that cord?” Leonard asks, his voice deep and rough, and seriously, what the fuck, no one person is allowed to be this attractive without even trying.

Jim passess him the cord, blurting, “You have really nice hands.”

Leonard stares at him. “Thanks.”

This is Nyota’s fault. Ae’s the one who’d dragged him over here, to the dark corner of this damn coffee shop; pushed him forward and said, “McCoy, this is James, he wants to start a band! He’s an ass but you’ll love him. Be good!” and disappeared into the open-mic night crowd. He’s going to kill aer later. Slowly. With something very sharp. He is _not_ an ass.

Leonard adjusts the settings on the amp beside him, flicking switches and twisting dials until he edges just past the sharp crackle of feedback he’s looking for. He picks out a couple cords on the bass slung low across his hips, fingers a blur, movements familiar and intimate, like touching a lover, and when he smiles, something in Jim’s chest squeezes.

“You really love this, don’t you?” Jim breathes. “Being on stage. Making music. I can tell.”

Leonard looks up at him, tips his head forward and says, like he’s sharing a secret, “‘S all I got, kid. ‘S all I need. My bass and someplace to play it. And my bones. Although,” and here he winks, “not entirely convinced those aren’t just made of sheet music.”

Jim feels like shivering. He glances behind Leonard’s shoulder, at the tech holding up a hand and a clipboard. “You’re on in five,” he says, and Leonard curses under his breath.

“Damn, well, nice meeting you, kid— James, right?”

“Jim. Kirk.”

“Jim Kirk.” Leonard nods. “I’ve gotta make sure everything’s set up. Good luck with your band, gimme a call if you decide you need my musical services— among others.” He huffs, almost fond, and adds, “Mx Uhura knows where to corner me, I’m sure.”

Jim’s still tripping over, “ _among others,_ ” when Leonard steps up onto the coffee shop’s tiny stage, black boots scuffed and covered in buckles. “Good luck,” he calls after him, “...Bones.”

Bones throws him a startled grin, and then he’s flooded with light and saying, “Evening everyone, who’s up for a little background serenade?”

Jim doesn’t think he’s ever felt a bass line like the one he feels that night. It’s in his blood, thrumming and thick like a fever, and it hardly matters that he hasn’t even breathed near anything illicit tonight because he still feels drugged. He finds Nyota in the crowd and tugs at the elbow of aer sweater until ae turns around. He looks up at aer through his eyelashes and yells, straining to be heard over the red heaven of Bones’ music, “I want him.”

Nyota laughs, and hollers back, “I could tell. You’ve never exactly been subtle?” It’s not a question, really, ae’s just making sure they’re on the same page.

Jim grits his teeth. “Shut up, that’s not what I meant. I want him in the band. He’s _incredible,_ and he doesn’t have a solid gig. I want him in the band.”

Nyota brightens, suddenly, aer smirk like the flash of a camera. “I knew you would. I’ll bully him into getting a drink with us after this?”

He almost kisses her. “You’re a saint, I love you, you’re the best, please be my drummer, please never leave me, please marry me right here, I’ll make you so happy, I promise.”

Nyota nudges him with the toe of aer shoe. “You’ll be a pain in my ass forever, more like. Jesus, get up, Kirk, the floor is filthy, you are _not_ proposing to me in this fucking coffee shop.”

Jim shrugs and stands up, brushing dirt from the knees of his jeans. “A man’s gotta try.”

The music feeds into a single lingering note, and they turn to see Bones finishing up his solo, completely absorbed, head bent so his hair falls over his eyes. His hands stay on the strings of his bass, dragging it out, long and vicious and painful to listen to, so rough and whining it’s almost primal, like he’s sharing some secret animal part of himself, and Jim thinks, suddenly, that this is the kind of music he wants to make. He wants to pull out Bones’ wild side, to turn a crowd into a pack of wolves, to make them _desire_ , desperately, horribly, to make them ugly; he wants to wear eyeliner and metal, to sing until his throat hurts, to have teeth sharp enough to draw blood without trying, to hear his name torn from the lips of his fans, to get high off the sound of it. He wants to scream lyrics so honest and stripped-down and _raw_ that listening to them feels like a punch in the stomach.

He wants to start a _band_.

Finally, the note wanes, and Bones looks up, catching Jim’s eye across the room. His stomach swoops.

Nyota leans forward, grinning at him, and says, “Ay, Cadet Cow-Eyes. I have his number. You want it?”

Maybe he won’t kill aer after all.

 


End file.
